Ah, I'll tell you this—I am going to turn over a new leaf, after to-morrow.
Quex.
You! your pages are all milk-white. What can you detect upon one of them to induce you to turn it?
Muriel.
[Gazing into space.] I—I've been scribbling there—scrawling—drawing pictures—
Quex.
Pictures—of what?
Muriel.
You shall know, perhaps, some day.
Quex.